Jen Knox's Blog, page 14

On Returning to Flash

There’s something bittersweet about completing a long-form creative project. I usually have two going, and in the last few years, those two projects have been a commercial novel, Chaos Magic, and my collection of personal essays. This latter project has kept me company for a while, long before I started writing about it. And part of me didn’t want it to end.

The problem is that I think it’s done. I thought it was done six months ago, but then I kept tweaking.

Recently, River Teeth selected a short version of this collection as a finalist for their contest, which is a true honor (finalist from them is big for me). Also, a notable agent chatted with me on Zoom after reading a long sample and told me how much she loved the voice, the story, and the delivery. (She also said what amounted to the following: “If only you were famous or related to someone famous. Or had a bestselling novel out already. Do you happen to have a novel about the same topic in a drawer?” Which sounds shitty but isn’t. It’s business.) Her confidence in the project, to me, was a nudge not a disappointment. This woman reads a hundred times more than most humans.

There are more signs, but I’ll stop the list there. The point is that while I haven’t found the right publisher, these acknowledgments are the warning dings. I can’t keep tweaking and revising. Put a fork in this manuscript—it’s done.

So with Chaos Magic (I’ll share the cover soon!) and this fierce little CNF manuscript being released like balloons (or grenades), I’ve decided to pause any new long-form work for a while. Not so much to quit but to take time to reinvigorate my muse by turning up the music and finding a faster beat for us to dance to.

Photo by Drew Dizzy Graham

This new rhythm is all about keeping things “short” in the form of flash fiction, flash CNF, and prose poetry. It’s a form that is not only timely in our impatient, digital age, it’s fun.

I recently wrote an essay on aging, for instance. It was fun to construct. I was going to try to find a venue, then decided to post it here instead because why not? It’ll illustrate the process I’ll outline below. This aging essay is an exercise in taking a single concept and kneading it until it becomes something cohesive and sweet.

I plan to continue this approach. I’m working on a short essay about charisma (excuse me, Muse, I’ll dip you now). Next, I’ll approach the concept of impatience, then human connection and division, then masks, gardening, then . . . I have a long list.

In revisiting the short-form work, I’m remembering how tempting it is to skim the surface of a subject, throw in a few fancy words, and add a nice rhythm with a little alliteration, a little amplification, and a few analogies. And end up with rambling thoughts that are pretty but lack cohesion.

So on the advice of a fab writer, Carolyn Zaikowski, I’ve returned to a practice I abandoned a few years ago. I’ve begun using mind maps to organize my thoughts. For a non-linear thinker like myself, the mind map is a way to see the multifaceted in a simple, graspable image.

Here is an example of my essay thoughts a week before I share the piece.

I can’t wait to share the actual piece next week.

Flash is a beautiful form in our times, at least for me. It’s great fun. So if you need a little break from your longer work or have completed what once feels daunting and now feels like a gaping hole in your life, join me! Try the following:

Pick a single word.

Identify the concept behind the word (which is personal to you).

Make a mind map about all its potential angles.

Pick those that call you.

Write.

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On the trifecta

There is nothing like loss to remind us to live.

Gloria was beautiful beyond words, beautiful beyond this world. Beautiful beyond any shallow notions of beauty. She was one of two people who encouraged me to write.

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Strong in ways I have only begun to glimpse, Gloria did not accept toxic environments. A tender soul in some ways, she found interesting ways to rebel and fought harder than anyone I’ve met.

She, my grandmother, passed away a few months shy of 101 years old.

The primary inspiration for the character of Amelia in We Arrive Uninvited, my grandmother was a woman I watched with hesitant awe as a child. And while her life was not easy, it was romantic—full of drama, love, anguish, and high-stakes emotions. She made her own decisions and created her own world, for better or worse, no matter the diagnoses or limitations others placed on her. Her journey was unique, and only she could’ve lived it.

I have spent much of this week imagining I had been there by her side as she passed, holding her hand, feeling the coolness of her skin and the softness of her exit, and reminding her she was not alone. But she knew.

Grandma chose to leave at the onset of the full moon in Libra and the penumbral lunar eclipse. The symbolism of balance, beauty, justice, and chaos—all at the same time—feels right.

Yes, my grandmother was beautiful. But she left this world more than a “pretty face.” She was pure magic, and she couldn’t be contained no matter how hard the world tried to box her in (I’m being a bit ambiguous here, but she lived a long and complex life and to summarize would be a disservice).

Rest in Knowing, Grandma, that many were touched by your beauty. Your true beauty, which I think is captured in the photo below.

Gloria (1923 - 2024)

While my grandmother’s passing was not entirely unexpected, this past week also brought on the loss of a good writing friend of mine, Rob Dinsmoor. Rob and I found a fast connection in 2009. He too was a yoga instructor and writer with a cynical view of the self-improvement industry.

We formed a fast friendship and supported each other for over a decade. He left this earth swiftly, after a series of strokes, and he wasn’t that much older than me. After reading my novel, he offered the kind of review that depicts something a writer rarely receives—a different perspective with respectful acknowledgment and praise of the storytelling. He also messaged me privately and said he was cheering me on.

While Rob lived on the East Coast, we kept in touch via email and would often send each other fan letters. We had planned to read together soon. Rob was a wonderful writer but an even more remarkable human. A genuinely kind and fair-minded man, I will miss him dearly.

I said a trifecta in the title, didn’t I? Well, the old adage that things come in threes may be right. A few days ago, within this same week, I woke up to find a large, hard lump on my dog’s face. She’s been slowing down for months, and I am facing the fact that I will soon lose a furry best friend, who has been by my side for a decade. And today, I cherish her every lazy roll in the fresh grass and insistent gaze before treat time.

2013, when I first met my pup Ahti.

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While spring blooms, I am facing a trifecta of loss. The universal message is not subtle, nor is it missed.

It stings, but I’m listening. I welcome the bloom and, for this particular spring, I’ll honor these three beautiful souls who inspire me, keep me going, and remind me what it is to be honest and kind. To laugh and love without limit. The magical part of my mind believes my pup will be with my grandmother and Rob, and that they’ll all get along quite well.

There is no deeper sweetness than having loved and being able to sit with the fullness of the shifting of life on this earth. I am grateful. I appreciate what is true and beautiful, and as much as I can, I will remind myself to fully live.

This week, I will plant flowers in my yard. I will cuddle my pup and hope she gets to see the blooms. Either way, here we are.

Photo by Kouji Tsuru

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I’m posting early this week as I will soon be traveling to be with family, so there will be a slight gap.

But, friends, ah to be porous and slightly depleted … this makes us better able to absorb the light.

Thanks for reading.

xo Jen

On releasing the work

I recently signed a contract for my second novel, Chaos Magic, with Kallisto Gaia Press. This book was easy to write. Because it came to me easily, I believe it will be easy to read and fun to share.

That said, I’d be disingenuous if I told you I didn’t have mixed feelings every time I publish. I’ve written before that I never liked the analogy of “birthing” a book because it implies parenthood. And trying to be a watchful parent to creative works is nothing short of crazy-making.

I have often tried to release my words gently, as an offering or in exchange for modest paychecks. I visualize stories floating off like balloons, delicately journeying toward their perfect readers.

I’d intend to watch them and wave, ask them to keep in touch. Now and then, I’d glance up and catch sight of the way they reflected the light. I’d contain my pride and feign aloofness.

Photo by Chien Nguyen Minh

But even with all good intentions, I would soon remember I couldn’t control much about the release or the receptivity. I’ve had stories I thought might change the world fall flat and others I cared little for go viral or find their way into textbooks and college classrooms.

Then there’s the business end. And if I’m being entirely honest (who wants that?), I’ve chased down checks from large academic institutions for writing workshops and felt my heart sink when emailing the fourth time about a contracted advance from a small press; I’ve had bots rate my books (of short stories) with reviews such as “I liked the recipes,” with images of half-melted AI faces.

Sometimes, in other words, releasing writing into the world can feel less like releasing a balloon and more like a grenade.

Write something. Publish. Jump back and hide behind something robust, close your eyes tightly, and pray to Mother Earth that she’ll support you. Or, if you’re courageous, watch to see what will explode.

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We wonder why we did it in the first place, and then . . . we begin the next writing project. You may wonder why. You may know. If you are someone reading this blog who is not a writer, you can read this as a behavioral case study in the wildly creative mind.

If you are a writer, you know it’s because writers are helpless to the power of the muse and her song. We’re here to share what she brings us.

People have a choice to write, but writers do not have a choice. We’re easily romanced and wired not only to write our stories—to process the world in this way—but to share them. And just like anything in life that we embrace fully, this means we put ourselves in a vulnerable position.

So let’s flip the coin.

Let’s take money out of the equation. Remove the impact of bad actors and irresponsible tech. Let’s cut to the core and remember that what we do is a process. What creative people offer is only muddied by expectation. Joy lives in the offerings we provide the world and the truths we explore for ourselves. Despite the human desire to hoard, it’s the release and what we give that keeps us nourished. And this includes our artistic offerings.

Kallisto Gaia Press is run by people with integrity, who have already gone above and beyond. I believe in their mission and them because I recognize the care they put into their works. We try do to the same . I know in my heart that this will be a pleasant working experience, and I’m grateful. But the truth is, even if I knew Oprah would endorse my book tomorrow, I still can’t fully control whether it catches flight. It might journey around the world, but maybe it won’t catch the wind. I might collect a few accolades, and I might not. I love this book, but I can’t force it to fly, and I can’t make myself crazy watching the sky.

I will do my work to give it a good send-off, but I’ll also focus on letting go with pure intention. And we’ll see what happens. Artistic vulnerability is tough, but it’s inevitable if we are true to what we are compelled to do as writers.

As I mentioned in my website newsletter the other day, I am compelled to keep going, and my work will be a little stronger and a little more “me” every time. That’s all I can promise. And every time I get an unexpected email, often from someone I would have never imagined reading my work, that says, “Jen, I just finished your book. Thank you,” I realize how little power the negative experiences hold.

We are in this for that—the personal connection. The reader that somehow, despite it all, found our words and truly sat with them. In our digital age. Who found company in our stories or poetry. Who connected with our writing in a way that is beyond anything measurable.

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So I’ll keep you updated on this beautiful book, Chaos Magic, and I truly hope you buy it and enjoy it (I’ll give you a heads up). But at some point, I’ll release it completely. And in the meantime, I’ll be off to start the next thing. And that’s the creative cycle . . . It’s not easy, but it’s nothing short of divine.

On the mysterious something

One of the most common challenges for writers who haven’t yet found their stride (in a project or generally) is overthinking.

Many of us have been here. We use all the tips, tricks, and techniques at our disposal. We want to use the extensive vocabulary we’ve amassed! We explore big ideas and sound smart, but something is missing. We realize that while sharing what we know factually can be mildly entertaining and potentially vocabulary-building for the reader, it does little to build a true connection.

Writing to foster connection, on the other hand, focuses on something beyond intellectual ideas and cultural or historical expertise. What’s frustrating for many intelligent people is that this “something” that connects us is mysterious.

Clive Bell, author of Art (1913) was a celebrated art critic who explored what this meant visually. Counter to what many critics do, analyzing technique, he argued that artistic resonance creates “aesthetic emotion,” which gives the art significance. This significance, he said, abides by mysterious laws. Writing and storytelling can achieve a similar mysterious significance.

We are overlooking the significance of the world in our constant quest for it later. —Alan Watts

As an educator, I recognize the value of structure. I understand that providing clear expectations offers people a certain amount of comfort and ease. But as I work with a dedicated and promising student, I also love to peel this structure back and provide more, erm . . . experimental assignments. (If you’ve worked with me, you know.)

Sometimes writers rebel. They want to know exactly what and how to write. They want to see their work with optimized rhythms and plot points. I tell them that’s not the point. Storytelling, for all its power to create and destroy, has a tricky relationship with formula. It’s in the nuance of emotional connection that we find meaning.

Besides, it’s the formulaic writing that computers can take care of from here on in. We want a way to connect, to find relationships with humans across time and space through the power of words.

One entry point for finding significance is simply how we’re feeling—our emotions and sensations (pains and satiation alike)—right now. Sensation can be translated to the page, but only if we are aware enough to know or remember how we feel (I recently taught a class on this for Thurber House).

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Another way to explore is by zeroing in on the minutia of life (the small, ignored details). And if focus isn’t possible, we can thrust ourselves into new environments. Julia Cameron recommends a writer go on an artist date, which means trying something new and getting the heart rate and adrenaline to surge by exposing oneself to a less-predictable day.

It’s fun to experiment with this, by letting go of the analysis and diving into the emotion. It may take a few tries and a new start on the same old piece, but if our aim is less about the ideas and more about the mysterious something, we will achieve everything we’re stifling by trying too hard.

Maybe more.

Photo by Ahmad Odeh

Prompt: Write/create the most intellectual piece imaginable. Now read it back. Have a nice chuckle (or relish your brilliance for a while). Rewrite the same piece using simple words, describing sensation, and exploring without pretense as though no one will ever read the thing. (Write something so true, you want to set it ablaze.) This is the one that will connect.

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Dropping the masks

Let's drop the need for filters and masks and learn how beautiful life can be when we love ourselves fully and completely and when we feel the freedom of what it is to be who we are today.

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On buying the flowers

“The roots of all goodness lie in the soil of appreciation for goodness.”

— Dalai Lama

I appreciate you, whether I know you personally or not. I appreciate that you are investing time and attention to sit and read. Thank you for exploring the world with me through the lens of words and ideas.

And on that note, I appreciate all of the positive and influential people in my life. The teachers, family, friends, and all those who model the personal and relational leadership I hope to one day embody. I appreciate those who challenge me and urge me to question my limited ideas so that I can continue to grow—those who keep me from dogma or stagnancy.

Photo by Ryunosuke Kikuno

As you well know if you read this blog or speak with me regularly, the direction of the online landscape disturbs me because I see so many humans adopting personas and rushing to be seen, piggybacking on others, copying ideas without attribution (even on a small scale), making transactional connections, and then rushing past each other in person.

So many think they’ve invented the wheel that was rolled their way and rush to show off the “creations” they are in a position to purchase.

I recently wrote an article on the call for servant leaders for my day job. It’s a bit of a dig on hierarchies in politics, academia, and beyond; but, I think in writing it I also opened up a topic I can’t quite close the lid on. At least in my own mind. While many take for granted those who are accountable, consistent, and supportive in their lives, there is great benefit to us all in recognizing these people and recognizing them loudly.

If we reframe the way we look at our lives, even just today, and we look to the places where we can express appreciation to and for other humans and identify all the people we have to be grateful for, we can pull back power from those who thrive on chaos and destruction.

The people we look up to or take for granted are often under massive pressure and need our support to remain as strong as they are. In honor of International Women’s Day, you can probably take a beat to think of a few women who gave thanklessly or whose innovations were trumpeted by someone else. Sure, we’ve framed people who give without praise in our minds as servant leaders or humble leaders; mentors or artistic innovators, but so long as they are human, they still need to be uplifted and supported.

Anyway, I say all this to say that I am consciously taking the next few days to think about and pay homage to those who have uplifted me and challenged me to be better. I invite you to do the same. Receive their gifts (and all the gifts) with open arms. Receive them without shame or the wasteful emotions that surround guilt.

But also send those you see as under-recognized unexpected thanks and, more, do so publicly. Appreciate them in loud and reverberating ways.

My call to action stems from my personal belief that the only way we will change the course of the current trends of placing the loudest few at the helm is to begin to recognize those quietly strong mentors, artists, and friends. As a friend of mine, Jackiethia Butch, recently said, “I’m not waiting till someone dies to give her flowers.”

So again, no matter what you are going through, I appreciate you, and thank you for slowing down with me once a week. Your attention and exchange is a gift I receive with open arms.

*I’ll write something about writing on the 15th.

On the unexpected

Imagine you are in a place where you do not speak the native language, riding in a cab littered with Rubik’s Cubes. They are on the ground and seat, they even bulge from the driver's seatback pocket.

You eye them for a while before picking one up, and you begin to turn the plastic squares. You have a 30-minute ride, and you’re already 10 minutes in.

At the end of the journey, the driver assesses your progress and offers an affirmative nod. He hands you a tiny replica of a Rubik’s Cube to take with you. You thank him in a language he doesn’t understand.

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Problem-solving, math skills, and memory are all enhanced by the challenge of trying to figure out the Rubik’s Cube. One of my former student assistants at OSU was in the Guinness Book of World Records for being part of a Rubik’s Cube challenge, and it was at the very top of her resume. Long story short, I hired her.

And, for the record here, the scenario above was not a fever dream, nor was it me overdoing my iron supplements. It isn’t even a failed short story (though I may flesh out this scenario one day and took a liberty with with the backseat pocket description).

This happened—albeit not to me—a few days ago. My husband was the rider, and he sat amongst over a dozen Rubik’s Cubes for 10 minutes before picking one up. In the end, he did quite well, creating at least one full side of color, which didn’t come as a surprise to me.

Photo by Klim Musalimov

I love this story. But the protagonist, to me, is not my husband (sorry, Chris). It is the man who drives a cab full of Rubik’s Cubes.

“Tell me more about the driver,” I said to him, but he explained that most of the drive was dedicated to the puzzle itself, so he didn’t have much more to share.

The driver may or may not have been a good person, but his affinity for Rubik’s Cubes and desire to share this passion interests me.

There is nothing quite like the unexpected encounters with people who offer us a healthy dose of curious confusion. Those who jostle us from our reality with an offering—usually strange—that reminds us of some truth.

I like to imagine this man as a teacher, even hero of sorts, who works hard not to roll his eyes when riders Google “the best way to solve a Rubik’s Cube,” and instead offers them grace but no gift. The kind who keeps a stock of tiny Rubik’s replicas as a metaphor for the offerings of a world full of mystery that begs us to slow down and examine the patterns in a way that doesn’t look for shortcuts.

This driver was on a mission to reward those who take the time to figure things out, rather than rushing to the end. Or, maybe he just wanted to give people something to do on the ride.

Either way, his choice of activities was generous and oddly insistent. After all, he might’ve had a single Cube and a magazine, along with a few packets of salted peanuts back there to keep riders sufficiently busy.

To ride with a cab full of Cubes, my friends, is a special kind of offering to the world. The kind worth exploring in our art/writing.

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Prompt: Write or reflect on a person (imagined or real) who hoisted upon you an unexpected lesson or perspective, who reminded you of something you’d forgotten, or who persistently suggested you slow down and reexamine the patterns.

Let me know how it goes.

On nonsense

I won’t go on about how good of a time I had in San Miguel de Allende because I’m already annoying people. It’s almost as bad as the time I went on a falconing walk and didn’t stop talking about it for two weeks. The world was full of birds then. People were just there to listen.

Today, my world is full of beauty and mythology, poetry, good weather, and cobblestone streets. But also, it’s full of nonsense.

So at the risk of being slightly annoying, especially to any of you who follow me on social, I’ll say it one more time: hot damn did I have a good time! Here’s a pic of me looking off into the distance, probably at nothing at all.

Me, full of nonsense & tacos (Image credit: Elizabeth Powell)

It wasn’t just being in a beautiful city and meeting new friends, nor was it exploring the near-hidden shops and eating well-seasoned food (salt and pepper is not spice, Ohio). It wasn’t even the readings and workshops or the fact that I got to do it for free. It was the fact that I had fun. Fun! I had fun because I had no agenda, and I didn’t take myself seriously in the least.

I wandered till my feet hurt and explored a shop that didn’t bother with the typical displays (see below).

This was only a third of the store.

I dropped a credit card down a street vent in the first few hours I was there and got a little embarrassed, then “built a bridge,” as my mother would say, “and got over it.” I learned how to use a digital wallet, and how to shamelessly explain my situation in Spanish before asking ¿Aceptas tarjetas digitales?

I happened upon an improv class, and I wandered with nowhere to go. I dreamed. I dreamed a lot. I dreamed and listened and laughed and was misinterpreted. I cheered on writers and performers and listened to conversations in Spanish, appreciating only the cadence. And I didn’t try to analyze or achieve. I just let go. I was not there to network. I was not there to sell books. I was just there.

I’m not sure if it’s a right of passage or happenstance or increased confidence/decreased self-consciousness, but lately, I’ve been feeling more in tune with the energy I remember feeling as a child. The child archetype, if you will.

As much as I can ride this out, I’m inviting wonder to lead me through my days. I remember as a child being so interested in every nuance of every person I met. I’d interview adults until they grew tired of my questions, and I didn’t ask them about the world (why is the sky blue?) but about them. Who were they? Why did they do what they did? Where had they traveled and what made them laugh? I remember dreaming about going on adventures with my elementary school bus driver, Mrs. Jackson, who drove too fast and had an impressive Jheri curl. For a full year, I waited for the day she’d decide we kids had more interesting places to go than school and take us all on an adventure to somewhere full of magic and intrigue.

Like many kids, I let curiosity lead my life. I was a relentless dreamer, an innocent. Then life revealed its anger and concerns, sicknesses and threats, and I lost that dreaminess for a while. For more than a decade, in fact.

A few years ago, I was in a lovely discussion group with my friend Jim Coe about Jungian psychology and Joseph Campbell’s theories of archetypes. It got me thinking about the cycles we all go through. The freedom of childhood (innocent) leads to the wreckage of first fears (orphan), which requires resiliency and fight (warrior), and so on. Carol Pearson’s book, Awakening the Heroes Within, outlines the way we embody all archetypes to varying degrees, but we often find ourselves in a phase in which one is dominant.

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The child self is easy to neglect but crucial to our ability to create fully, and I believe the only way to rekindle our relationship with that part of self is to surrender to play. But so many adults don’t know how. They think play is drinking a glass of sauvignon blanc. (It’s not.)

So how can we experiment with this child self if it feels too distant, and especially if we don’t have the time or opportunity to travel right now?

Jungian psychologist Dr. Rachel Newsome shared with me an excellent activity to coax adults into play. It begins by reading Lewis Caroll’s “Jaberwocky,” which toys with language and meaning and . . . well . . . makes no sense.

Newsome suggests following Caroll’s lead and writing a nonsense poem as a way to rekindle the sense of play. While the initial response to this exercise was a cringe, when I finally broke down and tried it, it was quite fun. And is perhaps more so if done in a group. I wanted to share the exercise with you (which, of course, I’ve altered a bit).

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It begins like this:

List words that you used as a kid or words your kids used that weren’t true words (think “psghetti”)

List words you love and combine them into new words (joy and plate could be “jlate”)

Come up with at least ten (10) nonsense words

From there, the exercise is to integrate each nonsense word into a line of poetry or prose that you don’t plan to submit or monetize.

Just play.

Give it ten minutes of your life. Five minutes even. Make it an exercise in release. Allow yourself to be vulnerable, to speak a new language, to let go, to dream and act silly. Try it with a friend or friends. You might be surprised where it leads.

But just as likely (perhaps more so), it won’t lead anywhere. Knowing the latter makes it a little more fun and calls for a little more wonder.

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On creative confidence

Creative confidence is a mirror image of our dedication, fortitude, and self-belief. I want to speak about this topic because I think it is imperative right now. Many writers I know are discouraged for various reasons.

It’s understandable.

"On the one side were techno-optimists who foresaw a utopian future. AI would eliminate workplace drudgery, diagnose diseases more effectively than doctors could, and save humanity from one of its most loathed burdens: paying writers for anything, ever." —Brian Phillips

Our age and experience, the era, overstimulation, and even the available clock time we have to create and release what we take in: all of it contributes to our feelings about what we create and its relative value.

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Some of us feel we should be creating more, others wonder if writing even matters in a time of automation and shameless plagiarism. Then there’s time. Those with little time, or who try to do things quickly often produce works that contain a sort of fever pitch. They can only produce in fits and spurts.

But all of this can work to the benefit of the outcome of our writing. The seeming lack of IP forces us to adopt the “write for myself” mindset. Lack of time might add momentum if it is not forced. But we have to believe in ourselves and our messages like never before. And when we start to put pressure on ourselves (or feel external pressure) for no reason or try to copy/replicate to meet unrealistic timelines or compete with others, it seems the work itself responds with rebellion.

“As any classically trained singer or actor can tell you, trying to make your voice sound like someone else’s can do all manner of damage to it.”

—Lauren Elkin

So here we are.

The absence of motivation or quality time to write often comes with a certain heavy feeling that you may relate to. This heaviness is the sheer absence of the creative process in our lives. Meanwhile, I am a firm believer that we all need to ride the waves of what comes and release the emotion around what doesn’t.

Individually, we can’t change larger trends and many don’t have the luxury to create more time, but we can change our mindset about the whole deal. Easy to say, I know. But this is why fostering creative confidence is the order of the day.

I’ll be honest that what follows hints at a sort of creative destiny that I buy into. You don’t have to, of course, but I find more grace in reminding myself of the call to authenticity over the pressure to strive. Sure, we are in an environment that tells us otherwise, that tells us our worth is in some paper or accolade or number. We are in a time that pressurizes artists and tries to diminish contributions by replicating them en masse. Got it, got it! but! Here’s my message.

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Stop wasting time trying to become what and who you already are.

You are where you need to be. You are creating what you are supposed to be creating and creating it at the perfect pace and in a way that will allow the result to find its ideal timeline and audience—be that small or large, be that what you think will meet your current expectations or not. Despite what you sometimes think, you are on the right track, and it matters, and it matters in the way it should. Share your messages in the way you are sharing them, not from a place of pressure or guilt or fear or competition or even urgency. Share what you are called to share and nothing more.

Again, stop wasting time trying to become what and who you already are.

This is a bit of self-talk, but I thought I’d share it here with the intuition that it might resonate with a few of you. Yes, our voices matter, but perhaps the more important message is that we will say exactly what we need to say and release what we observe in our own time. All we have to remember is not to get in our own way or psyche ourselves out.

The dystopic art narrative is just that, after all—another story.

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On Pain

After the Latin word poena, which means punishment, pain is something that upends our experience and changes how we encounter time. It arrives in all our lives and all forms. And to think that others do not feel it is wrong.

But what does pain offer us, if anything?

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Photo by Thanos Pal

I wanted to broach this subject in response to a comment on another platform because while I will never wish pain on anyone, including myself, I do feel it can be worked with and explored, even if temporarily. And I believe that everyone would benefit from trying. While pain is an inherently limiting experience, keeping us from certain foods or lifestyle choices—even from certain loved ones or physical activities—it also pulls the attention within like nothing else.

From the time I was fourteen, I would find myself intermittently doubled over in pain due to recurring pelvic pain and, later, accompanying migraines. Some alt-med folks say the pelvic bowl and cranium are connected, but that is something to explore another day. It wasn’t “normal” pain, nor was it bearable. It was the kind of pain that only more intense pain could distract from. So I learned to take scalding hot baths to distract my mind or try to push my body to exercise even though I could barely move. It would work for minutes, maybe only seconds, then the pain I was trying to avoid would return.

And while I didn’t know the Latin roots of the word when I was younger, I did believe my pain to be a punishment for something—for being the walking recessive gene I was born as (red hair, short, etc) or for not living up to my potential while I had the chance. The whole “Why me?” mantra (that does no one any good in any scenario) looped in my mind.

“We cannot be more sensitive to pleasure without being more sensitive to pain.” —Alan Watts

I no longer believe I am unlucky, nor that I need to figure out the why. Instead, my current practice—when I cannot prevent the pain, of course—is to listen to it. And when I am able, I try to express it.

Pain contains information. It is disharmony within the body or the mind. It is rarely avoidable and almost always isolating. But it can force us to listen like nothing else. It can show us environments that are costing us more than they pay us. It can show us where things are out of balance. It can show us when we’re not listening to our instincts (if only it were more subtle). Mostly though, it can force us to go within and realize how miraculous it is that the body can maintain equilibrium at other times. Even if the pain is chronic, it ebbs and flows, and when it’s relaxed even a little … wow. Yet, if we have not recently felt pain, we easily forget.

Recently, I had a migraine that kept me up through 2 a.m. I couldn’t concentrate on anything but the pain, and so I watched it pulse and move and swell and recede. It was like standing on the beach and losing my footing again and again. I tried to connect to its chaotic rhythm. It was doing the work of telling me something. Tension, dehydration, exhaustion ... something bigger? I listened.

Instead of thinking “Why me?” I got my message. It wasn’t a shocking message, but it was one I may have otherwise ignored. Didion writes beautifully about the perspective her migraine offered her.   

“For when the pain recedes, ten or twelve hours later, everything goes with it, all the hidden resentments, all the vain anxieties. The migraine has acted as a circuit breaker, and the fuses have emerged intact. There is a pleasant convalescent euphoria. I open the windows and feel the air, eat gratefully, sleep well. I notice the particular nature of a flower in a glass on the stair landing.”

—Joan Didion, from “On Bed,” The White Album

I like to think of pain now as a way to remind me how chaotic the pattern of life is in general and where my compassion has been lacking for others who suffer or where convenience is stalling my growth. Most often though, it shows me where I lack compassion for myself. It slows me down and tells me what I need to hear, not what’s convenient.

Pain is not a gentle teacher, but its seeming chaos is not without a call to rhythm.

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If this resonates, here’s a short practice for supporters (for whenever you need a reminder).